


darkness to me is only water to the sea

by treeviality



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Bittersweet, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Found Family, Future Fic, M/M, Misunderstandings, No Redemption Arcs We Just Do Our Best For The Rest Of Our Lives, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Essek Thelyss, Post Episode: s02e97, What's Dumber Than Wizards Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 06:03:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23006878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treeviality/pseuds/treeviality
Summary: Essek knows how his story ends. There is a place in Rexxentrum where executions are carried out, wooden steps leading up to a wooden platform. There hangs a noose, swaying lightly in northern wind, while polished cobblestones shine bright in golden light.There will be birds, Essek imagines, and when the lever is pulled and gravity takes hold of him one last time, he hopes they take flight.
Relationships: Essek Thelyss & Caleb Widogast, Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast, The Mighty Nein & Essek Thelyss
Comments: 151
Kudos: 730





	darkness to me is only water to the sea

**Author's Note:**

> In the light of Recent Events, I'm going through a serious existential crisis regarding my other story, so for now please enjoy (?) this half-feral, non-linear one shot instead. The quote is from Margaret Atwood's _"Cat's Eye"_. The title is from _"Caterpillar"_ by Mountains of the Moon.

*

you don't look back along time 

but down through it, like water. 

*

When it happens, it feels inevitable — but it isn’t love.

It’s just another long day in an array of long days ending in another silent evening, turning into another sleepless night. And it feels inevitable in the quiet of their dark room, with just each other as company, with the exhaustion in their bodies and the tremble in their hands.

And there is something comforting about the darkness, about the rustle of clothes falling to the floor, about the warmth seeping slowly into cold skin, about breaths exchanged and gazes held.

There is something comforting about it, something quiet, something warm.

But it isn’t love.

*

“What’s done is done,” Caleb says, in one of the towns they pass, and it should sound like a platitude, but it doesn’t. “There is no turning back time.”

The man he is speaking to offers a nod, still unable to look up and meet their gazes. He is one of the first members of the Cult of the Chained Oblivion they’ve managed to free, one of the first people untangled from the horrifying web they are trying to unravel. He still has blood on his hands, the sleeves of his shirt rusty at the cuffs, and he is trembling, far more than Essek has ever trembled, even when he was carefully locking the door of the Taskhand Adeen Tasithar’s office and raising his hand to cast his spell.

Jester steps forward and touches the man’s shoulder lightly. “But there is still a lot of good you can do,” she says, “so just really try to help now that you can, alright?”

Her kindness does prompt the man to look up, his gaze flicking up just for a moment to meet hers, and Jester offers a bright smile and lightly squeezes his hand. The man breathes out a haggard breath and then, very slowly, pushes up his sleeves, straightens his back, squares his shoulders. Jester watches him quietly and when he meets her gaze again and offers a brave nod, she breaks into a wider smile.

Essek’s gaze drifts to Caleb and he is unsurprised to see him watch Jester with a soft look in his eyes, his focus captured by her so completely that the rest of the world might as well cease to exist, with him none the wiser. Essek searches briefly for a flare of jealousy in his heart, but it never comes; the difference is too staggering for there to be a point of comparison. 

That awe that shines in Caleb’s eyes, that unfiltered gratitude for the existence of another — that, Essek imagines, must be love.

*

The shackles are heavy on his wrists, but that’s alright. There is fading moonlight filtering through the window, a square of brightness on the floor just by his feet, but that’s alright, too. He traces his dirty hands across the dirty ground, cuts his finger harshly on uneven stone, and is gratified when, for once, all he sees is just his own damn blood.

Caleb sits against the wall on the other side of the bars, and he hasn’t said anything for hours now, his gaze trained on the brightening square of the sky.

For his part, Essek isn’t looking at the sky at all.

There is warmth trapped in his chest now, familiar in its weight. It spreads from his heart and it fills his mind, and while it doesn’t chase away the darkness, it makes the fear, sent aflutter with the knowledge of his fate, settle down again, put gently to sleep. It makes the iron on his wrists a little less heavy, the exhaustion in his body a little less bone-deep. It makes him feel that when dawn finally breaks, he will have no trouble rising to his feet, walking up the steps and watching the birds take flight.

Caleb clears his throat and briefly closes his eyes. He says, “I’m sorry that it has to end this way.”

Essek continues looking at him, at the familiar lines of his face, the curve of his mouth, the sharp edge of his jaw. For a moment, he lets himself wish for impossible things. He wishes he could touch Caleb one more time, wishes to tuck his hair behind his ear and soothe the exhaustion etched into every line of his face. He wishes for warm days and warmer nights, for one more stolen moment between dusk and dawn, for hesitant touches and unsaid words. He wishes and wishes — and then he lets it all go.

He finds that he means it when he says, “It’s quite alright.”

*

The first time Caleb kisses him, it’s during a battle.

They fight well together, just as Essek imagined they would when he allowed himself to imagine such silly things. Caleb’s magic is fierce and wild, but there is joy to it sometimes, when Caleb manages to change the course of a battle or save a friend from harm. Essek’s own magic is nothing but control, every word sharp, every movement practiced. There is no joy in the way he fights, only horrified desperation coiled tightly in his stomach and relief that ripples through his body every time his spell meets its mark.

Their fighting styles should clash, but instead there is the same flow to it that came with working on spells together, combining their respective strengths and weaknesses to create something greater than the sum of its parts.

And so it is as they are being swarmed by enemies, their friends in the center of the battle and Essek and Caleb on the outskirts, that they both find the solution at the same time, their gazes meeting just as Essek crushes another enemy with a quick-aimed spell.

“Brilliant,” Caleb breathes, answering a plan Essek doesn’t need to voice out loud, and Essek can’t help but smile back, already searching for a route between their enemies that will get him to the place he needs to go for this to work.

And it does work — the combination of Caleb’s _Fireball_ and Essek’s _Gravity Shield_ results in most of their enemies turning to ash on the spot while the rest of the Mighty Nein remains safe in the middle, protected by Essek’s magic. They all look to him in surprise and for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, he lets out a laugh, happiness bubbling wild and free in his chest while sheer exhaustion takes away the last of his control.

Just as he drops the shield to allow the Mighty Nein to disperse and finish off the last of their enemies, Caleb crashes into him with force that nearly knocks him off his feet.

It’s a strange kiss — Essek is still smiling when it happens and it seems like Caleb is smiling as well, though it’s difficult to tell when he winds his arms so tightly around Essek’s neck, pressing their bodies together from head to toe. Then Caleb pulls back and the world filters back in, the Mighty Nein’s obnoxious cheers finally registering in Essek’s mind just as his gaze focuses on the unescapable blue of Caleb’s eyes and on the flush rising to his face.

“Brilliant,” Caleb murmurs again, pressing his forehead briefly to Essek’s.

Essek’s heart is thrumming wildly in his chest and it both does and doesn’t feel like fear.

And it both does and doesn’t feel like love.

*

For a long while, Essek doesn’t speak. He knows that his silence makes the Mighty Nein uneasy, makes them doubt him even more, but it feels like he has run out of things to say, run out of excuses and platitudes to offer. The silence is a fog in his mind, thick and impenetrable, obscuring his thoughts and feelings from sight.

It’s easy to think of war in a comfortable home, sitting at a beautiful desk, surrounded by expensive things. It’s easy to forsake lives with a blessing of immortality engraved into the skin just above one’s heart. It’s easy to inflict pain and cause harm when one never sees the resulting scars.

It’s harder to travel through the burned lands of the Empire, to see the empty houses, the overflowing graves. It’s harder to inhale the smoke, to have it soak through his robes, to have fresh blood caked beneath his fingernails, etched deep into the lifelines of his palms.

He can’t wash it off, now. He tries, helplessly rubbing at his hands, in the cramped little room in the back of an imperial inn, alone with his thoughts, the washing basin before him, and a mirror broken in half that reflects something that isn’t his face at all.

He barely notices the knock on the door and barely pays attention as the door creaks open, even when there is a flash of blue in the mirror, even when Caleb steps closer to his side.

“Here,” Caleb says quietly, and on the edge of the basin, he places a small bar of soap.

He doesn’t say anything else and he doesn’t wait for a response, already turning around to leave. Essek breathes in and when he exhales, words come tumbling out for the first time in weeks.

“I gave the Scourger her weapon,” he says and immediately, his throat closes up again, before he can explain, before he can add anything else, before he can tell Caleb of the flash of terror he felt that day, the first flicker of doubt in years.

Caleb meets his gaze in the mirror.

He says, “I know.”

*

The thing is, Essek knows how his story ends.

There will be a price for ending this war, a price they are yet to pay. Adeen Tasithar is now in imperial prison, his execution delayed on the Mighty Nein’s request, but for the war to truly end and for a lasting peace to be forged from the current ceasefire, there must be someone who will finally take the blame.

There is a place in Rexxentrum where executions are carried out, wooden steps leading up to a wooden platform. There hangs a noose, swaying lightly in northern wind, while polished cobblestones shine bright in golden light. 

Essek expects he will feel lightheaded, his heart beating wildly in his chest, trying to push blood into his veins at least one more time. He expects he will be hunched over and terrified, too far away from the nearest Beacon for his soul to survive.

There will be birds, he imagines, and when the lever is pulled and gravity takes hold of him one last time, he hopes they take flight.

*

The second time Caleb kisses him, it feels underserved.

There is no display of brilliance this time, no quick thinking. He isn’t useful in the battle at all, his magic failing time and time again, his spells missing their targets and fizzling out in his hands. He gets injured, too, which puts both Jester and Caduceus in danger as they rush in to help him, and it would have been better if he died then and there, because he is of even less use afterwards.

When he startles awake, it’s to the taste of blood in his mouth, and he rolls promptly to his stomach and throws up, his body still recoiling from poison that no longer travels through his veins.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Jester reassures him, pressing him again onto his back. “Just lie still.”

Essek swallows tightly. “Is… is everyone alright?”

“Everyone’s fine,” Caleb replies and only now Essek realizes that Caleb is kneeling at his other side, putting pressure on the wound on Essek’s stomach with his bare hands.

Jester glances between them and then at Caleb’s hands. “Oh,” she says. “It’s alright, Caleb, you can let go now.”

Caleb blinks at her and then down at his hands. Slowly, he eases the pressure, still staring down at the now-closed wound. His hands are covered in Essek’s blood. They tremble a little from the cold of the night.

Essek hums in acknowledgement of Caleb’s words, relaxing back into the ground, letting his eyes fall closed again, until he feels a touch on his cheek.

Caleb brushes his hair back. “You shouldn’t fall asleep now,” he says quietly. “You hit your head pretty badly when you fell.”

Essek forces his eyes open again and blinks up at Caleb. He says, “Okay.”

“Well…” Jester says at length. “I’ll go handle that cut on Beau’s arm now.”

“ _Ja_ , go,” Caleb agrees, still looking down at Essek with a strange intensity in his gaze.

Essek manages to drag his gaze away and tries a shaky smile, looking up at Jester.

“Thank you, my friend,” he says quietly.

“Of course!” Jester says with her usual cheer, patting his shoulder lightly. “I’ll be right back!”

Essek manages another smile of acknowledgement before shifting his gaze to Caleb. One of Caleb’s hands brushes Essek’s hair back again, even though none of it is falling into his eyes now.

“That was a stupid thing to do,” Caleb says, and he is still trailing his fingers through Essek’s hair.

Essek winces, closing his eyes for a moment. “Believe me, I know.”

“Would have been stupid even if it had worked,” Caleb adds.

“Well —”

“It would have been,” Caleb interrupts. “Don’t _ever_ try this again.”

Essek clears his throat. “I was just trying to look out for our friends.”

“ _You_ are our friend,” Caleb says sharply. “Look out for yourself, too.”

Essek rolls his eyes. “It’s not the _same_ , Caleb, I —”

Caleb interrupts him with a kiss. 

His lips are chapped and his hands are sticky with Essek’s own blood, but the warmth that the kiss brings about is abrupt and overwhelming, and suddenly Essek feels shockingly alive, once again aware of every fiber of his being, of the firmness of the ground, the smell of the night, the taste of Caleb’s mouth pressed against his own. He breaks the kiss, remembering the vile taste on his own tongue, but Caleb chases his lips and kisses him again, deeper this time, though still maddeningly tender, his hand resting lightly on Essek’s chest. Essek wonders if he can feel the hopeless racing of Essek’s heart.

“That’s… not exactly what I had in mind,” Jester comments lightly above them. “Caleb, maybe don’t get him _too_ excited after a near-death experience?”

To Essek’s surprise, Caleb smiles when he pulls back, and though a blush still rises to his face, there is no tension in his shoulders as he continues looking at Essek, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I apologize, Jester,” he says, and he is still smiling, and that’s such an unfamiliar sight. Essek hopes, more than he has ever hoped for anything in his life, that he gets to see it again. “He just wouldn’t stop arguing with me.”

“I suppose he _is_ quiet now,” Beauregard says thoughtfully, somewhere to Essek’s right. “Well done, Widogast.”

“Hey!” Essek manages faintly, craning his neck to look up at her, though he feels a small smile pull at his own lips, too.

“Well, the lack of arguing was short-lived,” Fjord comments from Beauregard’s side. “Now, if everyone has had their moment, will someone _finally_ help me set up this camp?”

*

Caleb has nightmares.

Essek knows, from hushed, half-broken words of explanation that Caleb sometimes offers, what the nightmares are about. He put the puzzles together a while ago, and although some pieces are still missing, the picture is fairly clear. Caleb doesn’t scream through the night, doesn’t cry. He just sits up in bed sometimes, bringing his legs to his chest, and he stares vacantly into space for hours at a time, and the next day there are deep shadows beneath his eyes.

At first, Essek pretends not to notice. He doesn’t trance through most of his nights, staring blankly at the ceiling, thinking of nothing, feeling nothing. The weight in his chest hasn’t lessened, but it has grown familiar now. The guilt nestles in his body like a bullet, with nowhere to go now that the wound has been sewn shut. At times, he wishes for selfish things, the comfort of his own bed, the wealth of his own home, the respect that came with his position, the power he will never again be allowed to wield. Most of the time, though, he doesn’t find it within himself to wish for anything at all.

So at first he pretends not to notice, too caught up in his own burdens to shoulder someone else’s, but somewhere along the way, the knowledge of it all becomes unbearable, the knowledge of Caleb’s trembling breath, the knowledge of his restless mind, the knowledge of the pain he has learned to carry with such quiet grace.

And so one night Essek slips out of his bed, ignoring the cold of the floor beneath his feet, and sits cross-legged in the middle of the room, right before Caleb’s protective wards. Caleb seems to barely notice the movement, not to mention acknowledge it, but Essek still summons his spell book from its pocket dimension and opens it on his knees.

He clears his throat. His voice is rusty with silence and disuse and it catches around the words as he begins to tell Caleb about one of the spells of his design. He speaks for a long time, until his lips grow chapped and his throat grows dry, his vocal cords out of practice as they are, but then there is a soft glimmer of magic before him and to his astonishment, he finds Caleb’s protective wards completely dispelled.

When he looks up, Caleb has already slipped out of his bed and he is sitting on the floor, with his back pressed against the mattress and his knees pulled to his chest. He looks exhausted, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his forearms covered with brand new scratch marks. His gaze is focused on Essek, unblinking and unfathomable, but his meaning is still quite clear when he pats the floor by his side.

Tentatively, Essek stands up, wincing at the slight ache in his knees, and crosses the room quietly, and then winces again when the floorboards creak slightly under his feet. Walking is such a graceless ordeal.

Caleb doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t otherwise move, so Essek slowly lowers himself to sit cross-legged by his side, shifting the spell book so that Caleb can see more clearly in the faint moonlight filtering through the windows.

That night, Caleb falls asleep with his head resting on his folded arms and his hair falling into his eyes, and Essek spends several hours sitting uncertainly by his side, looking down at his spell book without really seeing it.

Some nights later, though, Caleb rests his head lightly on Essek’s shoulder. Some nights later still, his fingertips trail over Essek’s careful designs, and his lips curl up in a tentative smile.

Eventually, he starts falling asleep pressed heavily into Essek’s side, with Essek’s arm curled carefully around his shoulders, and with his head nestled in the crook of Essek’s neck.

It’s strange how the warmth of his body lessens the weight in Essek’s heart.

*

It’s brittle at times, the Mighty Nein’s kindness and love.

Essek observes it from the sidelines, telling himself that it’s just fascination he feels, that it’s simple interest in a phenomenon he has never witnessed. His heart, twisting and untwisting in his chest, doesn’t quite agree.

Beauregard and Caleb drag him to every library they visit, leaving him to trail between the bookshelves and to pick up books at random as they rarely outright tell him what it is they are trying to find. He doesn’t mind, eager to get lost in any subject at hand, in the comforting familiarity of knowledge yet not learned. At times, though, he just pretends to read while he studies Caleb and Beau, the staggering difference in their behaviors and the bone-deep understanding that seems to stretch between them like an unbreakable bond.

Beauregard is chaos incarnate, stomping around every library with stacks of books in her arms, walking around and humming to herself as she reads, sticking pencils behind her ears and in her hair, only to steal Caleb’s own pencils whenever she passes by his side. She ruffles his hair, too, sometimes, and Caleb huffs in indignation without even looking up, only to retaliate days and days later in a similarly bizarre fashion.

Caleb, for his part, reads with absolute, unwavering focus, flipping through pages with a nearly military rhythm, never going back to reread a single sentence, never paying attention to the way Essek watches him over the edge of his own book, unabashedly studying the sharp line of his jaw, the smattering of freckles on his cheekbones, the dusty shadow of his eyelashes against his skin.

Until, of course, Beauregard circles back to them and smacks Essek on the back of his head.

Caleb does glance up at that, most of the time, if only to smirk at Essek’s indignation.

Immediately after, he loses another pencil to Beauregard.

*

Speaking still feels new, words uncertain and fumbling after weeks of silence, but Essek pushes them out of his throat anyway, one by one, no matter how much they scrape the roof of his mouth, no matter how much they sting on his tongue. When he finally runs out of words, his hands had left stains of sweat on his pants and his shirt is sticking to his back.

“I won’t forgive you,” Yeza Brenatto says into the silence that follows. “What you’ve done to me, that could be forgotten. Has, in part, been forgotten already. But putting our son in danger… that I will always remember.”

Veth squeezes Yeza’s hand, but she doesn’t intervene, watching the exchange in silence.

Essek closes his eyes, then forces them open again. “Of course,” he says. “Thank you for hearing me out.”

When Yeza offers a nod, Essek rises from his seat, glancing at Veth as she offers him a half-grimace, half-smile.

“But I do believe,” Yeza adds after a pause, having exchanged a look with Veth, “that there is potential for good in everyone. You can’t fix this, _Shadowhand_. But there are still other things, perhaps, that you can do right.”

Essek swallows past the tightness in his throat. “I will certainly try.”

Yeza gives him a searching look, one that easily uncovers all the ugly, rotten parts of Essek’s soul, and lays them bare for him to see. It’s staggering, the expanse of darkness against the light of kindness in Yeza’s eyes.

“Yes, Essek,” Yeza says thoughtfully. “I believe you will.”

*

The first time Essek kisses Caleb, it’s in the silence of their room.

Caleb wakes up from a nightmare again and Essek startles awake as well, even though Caleb doesn’t make a sound, and they are not sleeping in the same bed.

He is sliding out of bed before he even fully wakes, already summoning his spell book and opening it on the spell he was last describing when Caleb had a nightmare. Before he can sit cross-legged on the floor, as he always does, Caleb catches his gaze and pats the mattress of his bed as he scoots back to sit up against the headboard.

Uncertain, Essek perches at the edge of the mattress, but Caleb rolls his eyes and pats the mattress by his side. He doesn’t say anything, but he rarely speaks during nights like these, and so Essek climbs onto the bed and tries not to think too much of it when Caleb pulls the blanket over their legs and leans heavily and comfortably into Essek’s side.

Essek clears his throat, hyperaware of Caleb’s warmth, the quiet huff of his breath, the soft, familiar scent of his skin. He opens the spell book in his lap and begins to speak again, keeping his voice low, barely a whisper in Caleb’s ear as he tucks his head into the crook of Essek’s neck.

It’s not easy to focus like this, especially when Caleb shifts to his side and rests one hand on Essek’s stomach, toying absently with the worn-out material of his undershirt. Still, Essek continues to speak, very aware of his own breathing, of every time his throat clicks as he swallows.

He continues to speak until he feels Caleb’s fingers on his jaw, tilting his head so that they are facing each other. Caleb’s face is so close that Essek can feel his every exhale against his own lips.

He pauses, confused, letting the spell book rest in his lap, but Caleb only continues to look at him expectantly, until, still nearly certain that somehow he is misreading it all, Essek leans in and presses a soft kiss to the corner of his lips. A small shudder ripples through Caleb’s body and he tilts his head up in a clear request for more. 

It’s different, without the Mighty Nein around to interrupt them. Essek is familiar with the desperation that coils in his stomach, with this longing so powerful that it hollows out his chest with every breath. He doesn’t need to be kissing Caleb to feel it; it’s quite enough to just think his name.

He is unfamiliar, however, with his own tenderness.

Instead of deepening the kiss and instead of sliding his hands beneath the soft material of Caleb’s shirt like he has imagined a thousand times, Essek kisses his lips softly time and time again, hopelessly entranced by every little sigh that escapes Caleb’s mouth, by every tiny tilt of his head, every small smile that curls on his lips.

When Caleb falls asleep, still pressed into Essek’s side, Essek for the first time understands exactly where his path leads, and for the first time as well, he isn’t afraid.

*

“I could tell you to stay,” Caleb whispers feverishly into Essek’s skin. “I could tell you not to go.”

He is so beautiful in the bright light of the country he will always call home. Essek wishes he belonged in sunlight as well, wishes they could travel forever under the blue expanse of these strange foreign skies.

There is an end, however, to every journey. There is a destination to every path.

“You could,” Essek agrees, tucking Caleb’s hair behind his ear, and he will miss this, this knowledge that his hands can also soothe and not only cause harm. “But you won’t.”

Caleb drops his forehead to Essek’s shoulder and he lets out a shuddering breath. “Essek —”

“I love you,” Essek tells him quietly, because just this once, it needs to be said. “And it’s alright now.”

*

There is no fixing what Essek has done. There is no undoing the war, there is no saving the lost lives, there is no cleaning the blood that had been spilled. 

But the ruined buildings are just wooden floors and wooden walls, rooftops and windows, bricks upon bricks. And so Essek fixes them, sometimes, while the Mighty Nein rests in whatever inn they chose to stop at, because Essek doesn’t need much rest at all, and because draining his magic completely leaves an aching tenderness just beneath his skin, like a fresh bruise, and the pain feels well-deserved.

What he doesn’t expect is to one night find Caleb waiting for him in their room, sitting at the edge of his own bed with Frumpkin curled in his lap. Essek pauses in the doorway for a long moment before remembering that he isn’t doing anything forbidden. Caleb watches in silence as Essek crosses the threshold and begins to unfasten his mantle, brushing away the dust from his hair.

“You think we don’t see what you’re doing,” Caleb finally says. “But we do.”

Essek makes a noncommittal noise. It’s easier to talk at night, especially to Caleb, but there are no words in his mind now, no sounds. His throat is tight and closed-off, and his fingers twitch just a little to cast another spell, to feel that aching pull at power that isn’t there.

“Essek,” Caleb says again, while Essek slowly undresses, folding his clothes with care before sitting down on the edge of his bed to unlace his boots. “Please, look at me.”

Essek doesn’t look. Instead he moves his fingers just a little, trying to create a small gravity well in the palm of his hand, and he nearly shudders when his magic, drained completely after hours and hours of spellcasting, recoils from him in terror, sending a pang of ache through his body that travels all the way to his fingertips.

He wants to do it again, thinks distantly of smoke curling in the air, of entire cities of ghosts and unmarked graves, but then there is a touch on his hand, unfolding his fingers before they can bend into a spell.

Caleb is kneeling on the floor before him, between Essek’s legs, and he is cradling Essek’s hand in his own hands, and then he is pressing a kiss to Essek’s palm.

“Stop,” he says, and it’s soft, but it’s a command.

Essek looks up at that, entranced by the sight of Caleb kneeling before him again, shocked by the warmth of Caleb’s lips against the tender and bruised skin of his hand.

“Stop,” Caleb repeats, without letting go.

Essek meets his gaze and then deliberately looks to Caleb’s bare forearms. There are a few new scratch marks there, Caleb’s fingernails having left reddened paths all over the old scar tissue.

Essek clears his throat. “I’ll stop,” he says, forcing the brittle words out, “if you do.”

Caleb smiles, and Essek doesn’t understand the warmth in his gaze, the tenderness with which he kisses Essek’s palm again.

“Deal,” Caleb says.

*

He tries to learn from them, as best as he can.

He watches Yasha often, the capacity for violence she carries in her body and the kindness she so often chooses instead. He tends to walk by her side, especially on his most quiet days, when words are too sharp to force them through his throat. She is a creature of silence, but there is comfort to be found in that, in the way she stops him with a light touch when he is about to trip on uneven ground, in the way she presses her shoulder against his sometimes, when he falls too deep into the empty darkness of his thoughts.

He helps her find flowers, too, presses them carefully inside his spell book if she doesn’t have her own book with her. He watches the way she handles the plants, so careful with their petals, so gentle with their softest parts, and realizes that she handles her friends in a similar manner, brushing the hair from Beauregard’s forehead whenever she fails to tie them quite right, squeezing Jester’s hand whenever her smile falters, offering quiet nods whenever Caleb searches for her gaze in the crowd.

Then there is Caduceus, whom Essek most likely will never understand; who says things that make no sense in the present and contain profound wisdom in hindsight, who treats Essek’s wounds with such gentle care, no matter how well-deserved the wounds are, who makes them all tea that tastes like coming home, no matter how far from home they all are.

There is Fjord, too, who doesn’t speak often at all, but whose support never wavers and never breaks. Fjord still struggles, at times, to hold his head up high, and Essek watches him sometimes as he deliberately squares his shoulders and sets his jaw, as he raises his chin and straightens his back. When he catches Essek staring, Fjord offers half-a-smile, bringing a finger to his own chin the way a parent would to prompt a child to look up, and Essek finds himself raising his head in response, straightening his back.

*

The second time Essek kisses Caleb, it’s because he forgets himself, just for a little while.

They are all sitting around the fire, after yet another excruciating battle, and the night is bright and the sky is clear, and they are the most dangerous thing around. Essek is glad that he had enough power left to teleport them away from the battlefield and the heavy stench of blood and death. He is glad that they all seem at ease here, in the middle of the Empire, with protective magic keeping them safe from harm.

There is a bottle being passed around and Essek drinks as well, not enough for his thoughts to swim, but enough for his body to feel lose and warm. Caleb drinks, too, from time to time, and with each swig he seems to settle more and more comfortably into Essek’s side, running his fingertips up and down Essek’s wrist, tangling their fingers together just to untangle them again, tracing foreign shapes into the palm of Essek’s hand. The rest of the Mighty Nein watches them with some snickers and some fond smiles, but they refrain from commenting, now that all of their jokes got old.

Every once in a while, Yasha plays a few notes on her harp, and Caduceus lifts his flute to his lips, sending all birds into frenzied flight.

“What do you guys figure we’ll do after this?” Beauregard says lazily, taking a swig from her own bottle. “I know we have like, a war to end and the Assembly to take down, but after that?”

“We should get a new house,” Jester offers thoughtfully. “No offence, Essek. I liked the old one, but we can like, clearly never go there again.”

Essek feels a pang of sadness. “I’m sorry about that, Jester.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Jester says, waving her hand. “We have money now, we can get a new one. We can build one if we’d like!”

“Jester, you don’t know _anything_ about building houses,” Fjord points out.

“I know enough,” Jester replies firmly. “How hard can it be?”

There are a few vague noises, but nobody chooses to outright contradict her, so Jester happily leans back down and rests her head on Beauregard’s stomach. Beauregard wrinkles her nose in a snicker, looking up at Yasha who is playing absently with her hair, and Yasha smiles down at her with a shrug.

“I could start teaching, I think,” Caleb speaks up quietly, and it catches everybody’s attention, because the future is not something he talks about. He frowns and straightens a little when he realizes that the entirety of the Mighty Nein is watching him expectantly. “Oh, um. It’s just a thought.”

“Aw, Caleb,” Jester says, pulling herself back up. “You’ll make a _wonderful_ teacher!”

“You will be very good,” Yasha agrees.

“He’s pretty good already,” Veth offers with an air of pride. “Has always been.”

Caleb is blushing fiercely when Essek glances down at him, and it’s such an endearing sight.

“I concur,” Essek says quietly, catching Caleb’s gaze. “You will be amazing.”

Caleb swallows, holding Essek’s gaze. “Yeah?” he murmurs, his accent softening the word.

“Absolutely,” Essek confirms, brushing Caleb’s hair back.

Caleb keeps looking at him with that strange intensity, and for a moment, Essek forgets about the rest of the Mighty Nein, forgets about the sharp knowledge that whatever future they have in mind, he will not get to play any part, forgets that the closer they come to achieving their goals, the closer Essek gets to the end of his own path.

He forgets about it all, just for a moment, as he leans down and kisses Caleb’s lips.

Caleb kisses him back immediately, sliding a hand up Essek’s jaw and into his hair, and Essek thinks that he will always miss this, will miss this as he walks up the wooden steps to the wooden platform, will miss this as the birds take flight.

*

“No, no, no,” Jester is saying, circling the room in a wild half-skipping step, the rest of the Mighty Nein carefully avoiding her agitated energy, “there has to be another way, Essek, there has to be!”

“Yeah, man,” Beauregard says, glancing to Jester with clear worry, “listen up, that’s very noble of you and all, but like, that’s not what we do, that’s not how we handle things.”

“This might feel like a necessary sacrifice,” Caduceus says quietly, from his corner of the room, “but few sacrifices actually are necessary.”

“It doesn’t have to end this way, Essek,” Yasha says quietly.

“But it _does_ ,” Essek says calmly and across the room, he meets Caleb’s gaze.

Caleb is the only person who is yet to say anything at all, ever since Essek has carefully laid out his plans. He has listened in silence, with his gaze trained on Frumpkin sitting in his lap, and only now he has looked up, curling his fingers tightly into Frumpkin’s fur.

Right now he takes a heavy breath and continues to remain silent, but that reaction is enough to earn him the attention of the Mighty Nein.

“You _must_ be joking,” Beauregard says. “Caleb, that’s like a _whole new level_ of _absolute fucking bullshit_ —”

Jester stops in her half-skipping, one hand raised to her lips. “Caleb, _no._ ”

“Caleb,” Fjord says, still calmly, but there is an edge to his voice now, “don’t do something you’ll regret.”

Veth sighs quietly, sitting down next to Caleb, while Yasha sits at his other side.

Essek watches them for a moment from his side of the room, and then he nods to himself.

“I’m glad we agree,” he says quietly, catching Caleb’s gaze again. To the rest of the Mighty Nein he says, “I appreciate your kindness, I do. But this is something that I have to do. I have known it for a while now.”

Jester drops heavily onto the bed by Essek’s side. Her eyes are beautiful and wide and so, so very sad. She takes Essek’s hand and squeezes it tight.

“But we love you,” she says, very quietly.

Essek swallows. “And I love _you_ ,” he manages, and the words sound so natural on his tongue despite having never been spoken out loud. “All of you. And I always will.” His gaze flicks to Caleb again, but Caleb is now staring at his own hands. “But… I promised to help you stop the Chained Oblivion. And it has been stopped.” He manages a smile, though it trembles a little on his lips. “And this... this is how we take down the Assembly. It has been an honor to walk this path with you. But for me, the journey is done.”

“It doesn’t have to be, though,” Beauregard says quietly. “You understand that, right?”

“Look,” Fjord interjects. “If we can’t talk our way out of this, we can fight our way out of this.”

“And if you care so goddamn much,” Veth adds, “we’ll just kidnap that Taskhand guy from prison and set him free. And like, you’ve said he’s not that great of a guy?”

“He isn’t,” Essek says. “But he should answer for his own crimes. And I should answer for mine.”

He takes a deep breath. There is still walking away from this, of course, but there has always been, and yet here he is. He looks around his friends and perhaps for the first time in his life, he feels peace settle deep in his heart.

“I’ve started this war,” he says. “And it’s time I ended it.”

*

Time passes.

Slowly, one thread after another, they untangle the web that is the Cult of the Chained Oblivion, and then they work on finding the Shackles and strengthening the wards. Essek learns new spells from Caleb, spells that are perhaps less impressive but more useful, spells that come in handy when he needs to help his friends.

After battles, Caduceus carefully treats his wounds. During battles, Fjord and Yasha watch his back.

Beauregard laughs with him and ruffles his hair, and only steals his pencils some of the time.

Veth watches him like a hawk, but she plays cards with him, too, from time to time, and she always seems bizarrely pleased when he catches her cheating. She makes him buy her things as well, colorful buttons and strange hats, and he obliges, pretending not to notice when she later slides gold coins into his pouch.

Jester makes him smile and laugh even on the darkest of days, when he misses the dull ache of magical drain beneath his skin. She is the one who most often talks to him, too, and so Essek makes an effort to speak to her as well, to ask how she feels and what she thinks, and not simply accept the first platitude she offers.

It’s quiet, this love he carries in his heart.

It’s not just for Caleb anymore, it isn’t just for the silent moments they spend together at night, when Essek talks about magic and Caleb thinks of unfixable things. It isn’t just for the times when Essek wanders out into the night with magic thrumming wild beneath his skin, only for Caleb to find him and bring him home again.

It’s for all of them instead, for all of their kindness and all of their light, for their sheer inability to ever give up.

This love doesn’t fix what he has done. This love doesn’t make his own darkness any more bright.

But it’s still there, nestled deep in his chest, a familiar animal curled around his heart.

It hums in his mind and it sings in his lungs, and it makes the path easier to tread even as the final destination begins to loom in sight.

*

When it happens, it feels inevitable — but it isn’t love.

How could it ever be love, when Essek’s hands are still covered in blood. How could it ever be love, when Caleb’s soul shines so very bright and Essek is not and could never be a creature of light. How could it ever be love when Essek knows where his path leads, knows how it will all play out.

It isn’t love — except when Caleb cradles Essek’s face in his hands and kisses him, so very soft, time and time again, Essek can’t help but smile. It isn’t love — except when Essek trails his fingertips lightly over the scars on Caleb’s arms, searching for new scratch marks, most days he finds none. It isn’t love — except when they move together in the most quiet hours of their nights, they are careful with new bruises and tender with old scars.

It isn’t love, except —

*

There is a place in Rexxentrum where executions are carried out, wooden steps leading up to a wooden platform. There hangs a noose, swaying lightly in northern wind, while the polished cobblestones shine bright in golden light.

In his dreams, Essek has walked this path a thousand times.

He walks it now with his head held high, with his back straightened out. The sunlight is still blinding, but it’s lovely, too, and it’s warm, and it will make flowers bloom. It seeps deep into Essek’s bones, and for a moment, darkness retreats just out of sight.

Caleb is waiting for him by the steps, his head held stubbornly high, and the guards briefly let go of Essek’s arms, stepping back just enough to give them an illusion of privacy, despite the presence of the crowd. Essek’s hands are still bound before him, the magical shackles draining his power entirely, so all he can manage is a smile.

“ _Hallo_ ,” he says softly, and it’s strange, isn’t it, that it’s only now that he is finding it in himself to finally be brave.

Caleb makes a small sound in the back of his throat, still staring at Essek with wide eyes. He looks exhausted and of course he is; he has spent the night sitting by Essek’s cell. Essek feels a pang of sadness for the shadows beneath Caleb’s eyes, for the paleness of his skin, for the slight tremble of his lips. He meets Caleb’s gaze and tries another reassuring smile, more for Caleb’s sake than for his own.

“It’s okay,” he says again. “I promise. It’s alright.”

He expects Caleb to squeeze his arm, perhaps offer a short embrace. He doesn’t expect Caleb to take his face in his hands and to kiss him, here before the crowd, in the middle of the city that he has only just learned not to fear. His lips are warm and soft, and Essek lets himself wish, briefly, for just a little more of his time.

Caleb pulls away and presses his forehead to Essek’s.

Quietly, he says, “I’m in love with you.”

His eyes are bluer than the bluest of foreign skies. 

Essek presses one last kiss to his lips and says, “Thank you for saying that.”

*

“I need to make sure you understand,” Caleb tells him, a long, long time before Essek learns that his lips taste like warmth and his hands feel like coming home, “that I’m not offering you redemption.”

Essek simply looks at him, and it’s strange, the way he can’t find any words now that they are alone, cannot make a single sound. He is not surprised that the Assembly betrayed him; he is surprised that despite the fact, he is still alive.

“There is no fixing this,” Caleb says. “The things you’ve done, like the things I’ve done, they will never be forgiven. And they will never be forgotten.”

All Essek manages is a small nod.

“If you come with us, we will live for a little while,” Caleb continues, “and one day we will die. And between now and then, we will look out for our friends and we will try our best to make this world better than we’ve found it. And that’s all we’ll ever do, you and I. And that’s all we’ll ever be.”

It will be his last words for quite a while, but Essek says, “I understand.”

*

The wood creaks lightly as Essek steps onto the platform. There are, indeed, birds picking at the cobblestones, their feathers shining bright in golden light.

Essek smiles at them, just a little, and he doesn’t try to search for Caleb’s face in the crowd.

The executioner slowly unrolls his scroll and it’s strange, the crispiness of the parchment, the clearness of the font. It’s stranger still that Essek’s hands, shackled before him, had been washed clean even of his own blood.

Just as he is about to close his eyes, there is a thunder of footsteps on the wooden stairs.

“Oh man, now hold on a second!” Jester exclaims, and all birds take flight.

*

It is, of course, and has always been love.

*

“I still can’t _fucking believe_ you _honest to god_ thought we’ll _watch you die_.”

“Look, Beauregard —”

“We’ve told you we can talk our way out of this. With all that you’ve done to help stop the Chained Oblivion and to take down the Assembly, convincing them _wasn’t even hard_.”

“Well, Fjord —”

“It’s not Essek’s fault really, it’s just that all wizards are _inherently stupid_.”

“Veth —”

“Like, Essek, you are our _friend_. We’d sooner go to _war_ with the Empire. We’d go to war _ourselves_ —”

“I… Jester…”

“The executioner looked very easy to kill.”

“Um, Yasha —”

“It’s just fucking _unreal_! And don’t even get me started on _you_ , Caleb! What the everloving _fuck_!”

“Beauregard —”

“What escapes me, personally, is why you would _bribe your way into a royal prison_ and then do _absolutely_ _nothing_ when you got there —”

“What, was I supposed to _break him out,_ Veth?”

“Friends —”

“Well, I can’t believe you just fucked off and made us handle _two kingdoms_ ourselves —”

“ _Verdammt_ , Beauregard —”

“ _Friends._ Perhaps someone cares for a cup of tea? Perhaps someone cares to give Essek and Caleb some time?”

“…Fine.”

*

Beauregard is the last one out of the door, and she slams it firmly shut. The silence rings loudly in Essek’s ears for a little while. Caleb is still standing on the other side of the room, as far away from Essek as possible, and to some extent, Essek understands.

He still can’t quite believe that there is no noose around his neck, that air is flowing freely through his lungs. He will never be allowed back into Xhorhas and it’s unlikely he’ll ever be welcome in the Empire, but his hands aren’t bound and his heart still beats. 

It’s staggering, the sudden overabundance of time.

Caleb is still staring at him in silence, and he still hasn’t moved.

Essek manages a small smile. “Don’t worry,” he says quietly. “I understand.”

Caleb swallows audibly, his fingers twitching at his sides. “What do you understand?”

Since he hasn’t moved, Essek walks towards him, just close enough so that they don’t talk across the entire room. Caleb watches him unblinkingly, like a cornered animal ready for a fight.

Essek tries to offer a reassuring smile. “I will always be grateful to you,” he says. “For what you’ve said. For the comfort it brought. But I understand why you’ve said it. And I don’t expect anything from you.”

Caleb closes his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath. “You don’t understand anything.”

He pushes away from the wall and walks towards one of the open windows, where Essek is unlikely to follow. He looks beautiful in the golden glow of the southern light, the wind sifting lightly through his fire-kissed hair. One of his hands reaches out and he scratches absently at his forearm, and Essek’s fingers twitch to stop him, but he doesn’t know if he is still allowed.

“I’m in love with you,” Caleb says flatly, looking at the sky. “And I sent you to your death. Because you remind me of me.”

He was right; Essek doesn’t understand anything.

“I’m sorry,” Caleb continues quietly. “I hope one day you can forgive me for that.”

Essek frowns; there is too much here to address. He will have to handle this one issue at a time.

“You are _not_ in love with me,” he says, choosing the easiest problem to solve. He pauses, then decides that he might as well let the words tumble out. “You are in love with Jester.”

Caleb does turn around at that. “Um,” he says, bewildered. “What?”

Essek snorts unkindly, and suddenly, the flare of jealousy is very much there. “Oh, _please_.”

Caleb shakes his head, glancing up to the ceiling. “Veth was right. We are both so stupid.” He whirls around and strides across the room, into another patch of golden light. Then he turns to Essek again. “I love Jester, I do. I love _all_ of them, Essek. So do _you_! But not like that.”

Essek rolls his eyes, something ugly twisting in his heart. “Not like _what_?”

Caleb huffs a frustrated breath, running an impatient hand through his hair, all sharp movements and sharp lines in the golden glow of morning light.

And then, abruptly, he gives up the fight.

Slowly, he steps back into the softness of the shadows. He brushes Essek’s hair from his forehead and presses a kiss to Essek’s brow, his lips still sunlight-warm, his gaze still fire-bright.

Essek’s body readily relaxes into his touch. He can already feel magic blossom in his chest again, without the weight of the shackles holding it back. It’s comforting, this slow-blooming absence of pain.

Quietly, Caleb says, “Not like _this_.” He lifts one of Essek’s hands to his lips and kisses his palm, still looking into Essek’s eyes. “Not like _you_.”

Essek swallows through the tightness in his throat. The flare of jealousy flickers and fizzles out. He brushes his fingertips over Caleb’s forearm, trying to soothe the new reddened mark.

He says, “I love you, too.”

“I know,” Caleb says, and it doesn’t sound presumptuous; it only sounds happy and bright. He presses their foreheads together and smiles. “But thank you for saying that.”

And just this once, Essek lets his own heart soar into flight.

*

It is, in the end, love — but it isn’t inevitable.

It is built, instead, with careful words and careful hands. It doesn’t undo what has been done, doesn’t conquer their nightmares and doesn’t turn back time, but it is comforting and it is warm, and it soothes what it cannot heal. It is built in darkness, but in time, it might just grow into light.

It isn’t inevitable, but it happens.

And it lasts.

_the end._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ♥   
> 


End file.
